Donna Salvaggia
by Petals Open to the Moon
Summary: She is beautiful, and she is dangerous. Do not cross the wife of Aro Volturi. A short, dark fic.


**A little smidget I put up on deviantart a while back, inspired by my deviation: art/Donna-Salvaggia-376961468 It means "Savage Woman" in Italian. Enjoy/review. ;)**

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"A leetle more to ze right, Madame," Pierre said thickly._ "Si vous aurez l'obligeance?_ If you'll be so kind..."

The beautiful woman rolled her eyes attractively, shifting her body to lean more against the pillar. A large globe rested atop it, covered by some sort of linen cloth.

Probably an old curtain, she thought contemptuously.

Pierre Giollet's state of near-bankruptcy was no secret to the Paris elite. His home was to be taken from him in one month, and whatever belongings he could not pay for sold. Despite all this, Sulpicia found some pity to spare for him. He had been desperately searching for a new subject, intent on selling his new portrait for a few more francs, when they had come across each other. The lovely lady was garbed completely in black - rather shocking, considering the heat - and listened with sympathy to his tale of woe. She extended a gloved hand to his, which he gratefully kissed as she accepted his offer.

That had been three weeks ago. Now, in his last week before total ruin, the artist worked feverishly. Sweat dripped beneath his collar, trailing moistly down his back as the paintbrush lashed back and forth. Her beautiful face was completed; he must now only finish the backdrop of the painting, which he always hated to do. The true magic of portraiture was the subject itself, not silly maps or dishes of fruit in the background!

He glanced over his canvas briefly, taking a breath. Madame was gazing unseeingly up at the window, the light casting an attractive glow on her extraordinarily pale face. He had been worried about her skin. So little color. He had offered the use of cosmetics nervously, expecting her to be offended, but she'd agreed without a fuss. A dainty spot of rouge, poised high on each cheek, complimented her red lips and smoky eyes marvelously.

_Bon sang, if I were twenty years younger,_ he thought absently.

Sulpicia noted the artist's blush as he turned back to his work, smirking quietly. Her perfect lips parted. "I well accept whatever you have, Monsieur. This has taken long enough, don't you think?" Her French was flawless; the accent spot-on.

"Ah, yes, of course..." He fumbled, setting down the brushes hurriedly. "Would Madame care for a look?"

She swept down from the platform gracefully. "At last..." A heady scent surrounded her, fogging poor Pierre's senses irrepressibly. She lifted a delicate finger, pressing it thoughtfully to her chin as she studied the portrait.

_"J'aime,"_ she said simply. "I like it."

Pierre blushed again. _"M-merci, Madame._ You are too ki-"

"How much do I owe?" she slid in smoothly. A bejeweled valise appeared in her hands.

"Oh, I-" His Adam's apple bobbed convulsively. Her eyes had him like a snake's. "Y-you name ze price, _mon cher."_

_"L'argent?_ Money? Nothing else?" She glided closer, the white lace dipping and revealing her creamy bosom. "Surely..."

The dazed artist choked out something, but whatever it was, Sulpicia never knew. Nor did she care. A pale hand lashed out, gripping the back of his neck with brutal force. She yanked him towards her, crushing his hot, sweaty body to hers before sinking those gorgeous pearly-whites into the side of his throat. .

It did not take long, which disappointed her. She was in a particularly masochistic mood today. "That should please you, Caius," she muttered, laughing harshly as she envisioned her irascible, unpredictable Coven brother.

Ah, yes. Coven. As in "vampyre." Sulpicia preyed on the living, and helped Death in his duties. Only fitting, considering what she was.

She dropped Pierre's body like a sack of goods at the marketplace, letting any blood remaining trickle over the fine Brazilian wood. Her eyes zeroed onto her portrait once more. Something was missing. But what?

She laughed suddenly, awfully.

Glancing over her shoulder, she listened carefully for a moment, in case anyone heard his body fall. Nothing. She gripped the paintbrush in her hand, slimy with his sweat, and dipped it lovingly into the unopened vial of "Cadmium Red." Her husband would be here soon, impatient and, as usual, lustful for her presence.

She snickered, touching the dripping brush to equally wet canvas. A little touch there, a wicked smear here. A faintly noticeable crimson near the edge of her white, lacy gown. She stepped back, giggling and triumphant.

"Goodness," she whispered to herself. "My purity is ravaged!"

A fact her husband would take care to remind her of, once he crushed her in his sweet, black embrace. She flung the brush down, walking noiselessly out the door. She did not want the painting. Unless, of course, her husband approved. Then it could hang in his damned study, for all she cared.

"Old fools," she laughed. The door of the study closed behind her.


End file.
